Nonsense
by The Dishwasher
Summary: On Jareth and Jeremy, living between the stars and getting out of the Underground. Sometimes hinting at a story. Sometimes featuring Sarah. Now complete.
1. Nonsense

**Disclaimer: **Disclaimed and not owned by me. Originally a one-shot inspired by 'As the World Falls Down' video, one of the two Labyrinth music videos, which are rather interesting. Since then this has developed into an ongoing series of shorts, unrelated at first. A nonsensical story has emerged.

* * *

**No(n)sense**

* * *

There it is again, that evasive image, she knows that it is something alluring and dangerous. He is the earth and the sky and the lust. At times like these she sprawls over the dream and grasps its forms with her body, she breathes it in and reclines on it, her fantasy.

Every so often he can sense that she yearns for the Labyrinth and for its colours. He can see her walk the winding path to the great gates of the outer walls, which she touches, of course, and he savours the feel of her skin on his face. She is not nostalgic in the slightest, because (and he smiles) back then all she knew of desire was less than a daydream; even a glimpse into such a world frightened her. No, her longing is not a fond memory of childhood, but a current want drowning in the murky depths of consciousness, inevitably discovered upon growing up. Won't you, my Sarah, won't you share your dreams with me? But every time it is the same, she stops at the threshold, pauses for a few moments, and sadly turns back, turns away, walks away.

He waits and holds his breath at the top of his lungs. Perhaps today she will come, doesn't today feel different? Isn't her touch so urgent and fervent today? But the dwarf shrugs, because, just like all those times before, he looks about outside and sees nobody there.

The door closes and a shadow falls across his face.

She still dreams and he still hopes.

Maybe tomorrow.


	2. Dream

**Disclaimer:** Disclaimed.

Jeremy/Jareth have personality issues.

* * *

**Dream**

* * *

It was so warm and comfortable that at first he didn't even understand that the dream had ended. Perhaps he had woken up within the dream, that occasionally happens. Next to him lay a woman, of whom one could only see the long, dark hair. Her breath, barely perceptible, was remarkably steady. She slept, face averted from him, holding the lion's share of the blanket. He didn't want to wake her.

Who are you, stranger, he thought. His head was full of nonsense. Where are the goblins? What do they have to do with this anyway? One name kept adhering itself to his tongue, unpronounced. Why was it so difficult to _think_?

The room, fairly small and decorated to their taste, was unbearably stuffy. He quietly got up, went through to the bathroom, pushed the door shut, turned on the light, poured a glass of water. The reflection glared at him with murky eyes. No, something was out of place. Having splashed his face with water he ran a damp hand though his hair. Froze. It was too short. It could not matter less to his reflection. What next? You're off your head. More rubbish about goblins?

Oh, go to the Bog, the lot of you, he whispered angrily and leant against the sink. The dream, for what else could it have been, continued. You must go back to her, to bed, shut your eyes and think no more of anything.

Your Majesty, called the mirror. He started. He was alone in the bathroom, but through the looking-glass, next to the somewhat blasé reflection of his own tired visage, was the clear and bright vision of a dwarf.

Not you as well, he grumbled with a frown. Quiet, or she'll wake up.

But he was too late – the bed creaked, the woman yawned and padded over to the door.

"Why are you up, Jeremy?"

"Getting some water," replied the reflection with his own voice, "I'll be out in a minute."

Sire, insisted the dwarf in a hushed voice, It is time. You're _not there_, you understand?

What do you mean, not there?

Come off of it, sneered the reflection, You've had enough. Go back where you came from.

Where, then?

The door to the bathroom opened and she came in, touched his shoulder.

The dwarf disappeared. What the hell? He squinted, leaned in towards the mirror. His hair was short, as it should be. The sleepy eyes were his own.

"Come on," she said, pulled his arm, "I have to get up early, the rehearsal is at eight."

Slowly, he moved away.

"Don't stare at the mirror, or you'll turn into a goblin."

He looked back for one last time, turned off the light and returned to the bedroom with her. Before he went back to sleep, or within that same, long, endless dream, that other name whirled on his tongue, and his thoughts whirled and spun, turning into transparent weightless spheres, floating to a distant, underground world.


	3. Cactus

**Disclaimer**: Disclaimed and not mine. Cactuses? Really?

More probing around the Jeremy/Jareth connections and how others might be affected.

* * *

**Cactus**

* * *

How could she amalgamate all that elegance and wit and a knack for novelty pizza toppings, and in spite of it, stay here with him? The London air was chilly out, the windows had steamed up around the frames leaving only a round focal point into the night. But there was no outside – the glass showed a mirror image of the flowering cactuses on the sill and glimpses of her arms, her blue top, her long hair. She said that dinner was almost ready.

Would she ever know, he wondered wryly, that I am not quite here? How often did he even think of this? Although he could never quite remember the last of such existential meanderings he suspected that they were less than infrequent.

Would she ever know that she is not the one? Wouldn't it be dreadful, to have divorced her husband and left her charming daughter, to cling instead to this shade of an actor with English teeth, and love him and trust him &c., even going as far as to make him dinner on her evenings off, and to realise that she is not the one. Well, she doesn't. And she won't.

Just what is it, Jeremy, the prickly plants seemed to ask him as he reached for the plates to set the table, what is it that makes you doubt the very meaning of your, some would say comfortable, state of being? Why is it that, in your little moods like this, you take a look at Linda, so well assembled and well behaved, and imagine a meadow of cactuses?

He couldn't place a finger on it and instead decided to touch the plant, which really was as sharp as it looked. Even if I am not entirely here, he pondered over the wounded fingertip, I still feel, and that is somewhat reassuring. And yet, when he looked at the interior of the kitchen in the window acting as mirror, there, in the settled mist, he could almost see what he was missing. It was too faint to understand, but there was no refrigerator, no microwave behind him, rather the spires of an unknown or perhaps overly familiar castle, stretched upwards until they were interrupted by the edge of the pane and the tight roll of the blind.

Is that where you are? asked the cactuses, and their little yellow flowers trembled with the dawning of a potential discovery. He couldn't answer them, because he promptly and easily forgot all about the reflection, thought of the pizza, and didn't find anything out of the ordinary about Linda except that she was an enchanting woman with whom he was more than content to spend the evening.

If one were to tone down the theatre reviews, one could say that Linda Williams executed her acting in a convincing and engaging manner. Over the unravelling hours, she acted out the dinner and the wine, added laughter where appropriate, and behaved exactly like the Linda at five to eight. Only the Linda at eight o'clock felt the temperature drop all through the house, feared the seemingly harmless kitchen appliances, and most importantly, saw only a part of Jeremy, a part which denied it and berated itself, but nonetheless knew that it was not in love with her.


	4. Underground

**Disclaimer:** Disclaimed.

This time (loosely!) based on the video Underground. Allotments?!

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**Underground**

* * *

The time was a quarter to thirteen. Surely it was time to write a list of things to do for the following day, to check the night guard, to stroll through the rooms up the staircase to the tower, to look at the sky (wistfully) and to retire to bed. There were more than several unanswered letters sent in from Goblin City, various books on kingdom management that had been started but not finished, goblins to be disciplined, but it would wait until the next day.

Only he felt that he didn't want to sleep.

He vividly pictured a small, smoky bar, and a swarm of sweaty, glistening people (not goblins). The stage was kitted out for a gig, his pal on the drums and Eddie on guitar – thank god they found him to replace their regular at such short notice – and the twins on the bass and the synthesiser. As for himself, he wore a leather bomber and was having the time of his life with the microphone. The audience seemed to dig it. Do people (not goblins) even say dig anymore, when they're not talking about allotments?

He got so carried away that he could feel a song coming on.

But he was surrounded by goblins (not people), and they would not entirely understand the lyrics, nor indeed the nifty chords. They were better with actions, he conceded, such as the Magic Dance, the Robot Dance and even the Chicken Dance (never again).

In his mind he switched to the performance in the club, which was now blasting out a climatic finish. The crowd loved it.

Well, that's great, he thought. And now bed-time.

But the vision decided to carry on in spite of his intentions. It took him past the band packing up, beyond the slow dispersal of the clubbers, along the shiny pavement smeared with neon reflections of the nightlife, and he could not turn away when it, quite deliberately, took him Underground.


	5. Linden

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

* * *

**Linden**

* * *

Linda linda linda linda, he breathed, beneath the avenue of broad trees, in step with the fresh air of spring. It was the third day since she left the house, with its coffee and plants and mould in the bathroom. Her things were still in the bedroom, and her shoes and faded footsteps had remained in the corridor after she ran down the stairs, along the creaking floorboards and into the outside.

She had been absorbed by the darkness that night, he watched her dissolve into the grey and blue hues, indistinguishable from what in daylight was a bench, a hedge and a phonebox by the road. She had fluttered past him, step by quick step, flung open the door and disappeared.

Linda linda linda linda, he repeated his chant, linda linda linda... The past two breakfasts have been lonely and soggy, and the dinners instant and tasteless. He had lost her.

He walked in the uneven and fractured shade of the leaves intertwining high above him, stepping in and out of dimples of sunlight. Linda loved her springs, when the coldness of the winter would start to melt away into a pleasant temperature and the days would leisurely grow longer and warmer. How long would she stay away? He didn't even know where she was.

Everybody leaves, he thought, hands stuck in his pockets and a deep line upon his brow, everybody leaves me. For he had often imagined a little boy, alone in a green and dense forest, crying for his sister and his father. Yellow light dappled through the canopy and splattered the ground all around his feet. A short old man with a shiny belt hobbled up to him.

"They'll get you if you keep blubbing like that, they will, 'em dratted harpies," he said, "What are you doing here?"

"I'm waiting for my sister."

Only nobody came, not that day, not the next day, and every day the shadows shrank and grew in fabulous sunsets. The boy stayed with his new friend for some time, until the latter said,

"It is time for you to go."

But it was in the little hut that the boy had felt safest and happiest. He did not want to go back to the father who would scold him and the sister who would ignore him. Yet the old man insisted, and the boy finally complied, although not before he made a very special wish.

Had I read such a story when I was a boy, he would often wonder on cold evenings, or grey mornings, or solitary walks, or had I seen it in a play, or on television? Or did I dream this scene, leaf by leaf? He was sure he knew the little boy very well from somewhere.

And he felt another time, when another face, young and smooth, turned away from him though he asked for so little.

The sun hid behind an opaque cloud and the sky threatened to rain.

Everybody leaves me, he thought.


	6. Sarah

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Was originally to be a Labyrinth story with proper chapters and plot. Has now been dissected to fit with these nonsensical shorts. So…

* * *

**Sarah**

* * *

Something shrill reverberated through the folds of sleep. The dream ended, all memory of it vanished. He sat up in bed, turned off the alarm.

"It's Monday," he said.

The morning radio was well under way in the kitchen, but there was no smell of coffee, no steam on the bathroom mirror – Linda was not here. Which meant he could enjoy another guiltless breakfast fry-up. After a rummage in the cupboards he found a clean plate, a relatively clean mug, and a spoon.

"Spoon will do," he said, and set the table for one.

So far, Monday wasn't half bad.

Breakfast was interrupted. He listened again. There was definitely a knock at the front door. The clock maintained that it was too early for the postman. He tightened the belt of the dressing gown, picked up his coffee and made his way into the hall.

"Oh hi," said the dark haired girl on the doorstep, "Did I wake you?"

At first, perhaps because the caffeine hadn't kicked in, or because it was very bright outside and he squinted from the shadows, he could have sworn it was Linda.

"It's me, Jeremy. Didn't you get the message that I was coming to stay with you guys this spring?"

But he blinked, and could see now that there, on the steps leading up to the front door of Linda's house, was Linda's own and only progeny. She wore a large rucksack and the expression of undergoing a ten hour flight. Her eyes peered over his shoulder into the dark corridor,

"Is mom still asleep?"

He wasn't quite sure what to say. Eventually he decided to start with "Why don't you come in?"

"Are you hungry?" he proceeded, "I've just made coffee, and there's still some toast left… There must be another mug around here somewhere…"

Sarah followed him into the house and closed the door behind her. She looked at the pictures on the walls in the grey light and noticed that the curtains were drawn. Her mother's shoes littered the bamboo floor, and tall houseplants in Japanese pots withered in a corner. Still on they walked, past the living room, where through a half opened door Sarah saw the carnage of cardboard pizza boxes, empty wine bottles, burned out tealight candles, socks (unmatched) and newspapers.

He led her to the kitchen, they both stepped inside, she put her rucksack on the chair. The first thing she saw was the mountain of dishes and glasses and knives and forks and chopsticks by the sink and on the worktop. Unwashed pans sat on the hob. Next to her an overflowing waste bin wafted unpleasantly. Jeremy gave up the quest for clean mugs, made a space in the sink and rinsed out one from the pile, which he then wiped dry with a distinctly brown tea towel which must have once been a shade of blue. She needed no further evidence.

Sarah said,

"She's not here, is she?"

And then she said,

"You had no idea I was coming here, did you?"

"Take a seat," he said, and poured her the remainder of the coffee from the cafetiere. He readjusted his dressing gown. Sarah stared at the cup silently, crestfallen. He watched her, studied her face. How similar, and how different to Linda, he thought.

Sarah stirred her coffee and glanced up at him.

"When did she leave?" she asked.

Jeremy explained that the last time he saw Linda was when she stormed out of the house, angry and resolute, two weeks ago to the day. He had not seen her since, but he knew that she was staying with a friend. Male or female, he didn't say. And, she had not mentioned Sarah's visit. Sarah's face fell even more.

"Maybe she told me and I forgot," added Jeremy hastily, "I can't be sure."

"Oh, I'm pretty sure she forgot to tell you," thought Sarah miserably while not quite being able to bring herself to drink the coffee. She thought of how she eagerly counted down the last few weeks of term, of how she packed her bags, the goodbyes to Toby and Dad and Irene, the dull and dry airplane cabin with bad movies and incipid juice. She thought of her mother, whom she had not seen for two years. And she felt a lump in the back of her throat and a prickling in her nose and eyes. Jeremy shifted about uncomfortably, downed his coffee and put down the mug on the table loudly.

"How long are you here for?"

"Three weeks," Sarah said, surprisingly steadily, and added, with a forced brightness, "Maybe she'll even turn up."

"I'm sure she'll turn up, Sarah," he said, helplessly accumulating resentment towards Linda. Despite the fry-ups and lazy mornings, pizza and Chinese takeaway and bad films on DVD, he himself had hoped that Linda would return today.

"Look," Sarah said eventually, "I can change my ticket and head back to the States. I have some coursework to do anyway. I'm sorry for barging in on you, I just thought that mom would…"

But he found himself asking Sarah to stay. Linda could come back at anytime, and they could always get in touch with her. Besides, why waste an opportunity to see London, and further afield?

And Sarah found herself agreeing.


	7. Fractal

_A/N: Last line paraphrased from Fleetwood Mac._

* * *

**Fractal**

* * *

For him the future was the present and the past, an intangible mass through which he would occasionally blunder.

But for her, future was a social fractal of marriages and children, work and pensions, culminating in decay and dust.

Sarah, sarah. Never change. Never stop


	8. Home

_A/N: I_ can_ live within you?_

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**Home**

* * *

The colourless darkness settled on the chairs and dressing table, sank deep into the carpet and curtains, rested on the bed, on them.  
His head was so still and quiet - no voices, no worlds, neither drunk with exhaustion nor heavy with sleep. It had not been this way for longer than he could remember.  
And as he lay there, in her arms, hair and skin, for the first time in countless years he felt, with his complete being, that he was finally together.  
That he was home.


	9. Serene

_Disclaimed etc._

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**Serene**

* * *

He defiantly stared into the vacuous underground sky, knowing that he would not see or hear anything promising.

The air here was lifeless and sweet, and it entered his lungs, diffused into blood, filling the smallest capillaries. He felt very old, and very heavy, almost like the rocks in these shifting, cheating Labyrinth walls.

Tap tap tap, said the riding crop against his leg, and nothing happened.

The beat, which he executed in 15/8, was the only sound to punctuate the stillness that had almost suffocated him, and to reassure him that he continued to exist.

He attempted to visualise a couple of hooks for a song, but the notes smoothed out, became uninteresting, even before he could sound them out in that sedated mind of his.

For he should have felt secure here, but now, this evening, like many evenings, he was acutely aware of a lack of...

…sometimes he could very violently feel the world, seemingly endless beyond its horizons, constrict around him in tight coils. And sometimes he felt her light touch on his arm, in his hair, or maybe it was the wind playing tricks. Or he would sweat during sleep, always during sleep, when his dreams took him to unknown, familiar places, where there were strangers and friends he did not recognise. He dreamt that she came to his house – or perhaps it was not his – and neither one said anything to the other, but he noticed the sunlight in her hair, the life in her face. He dreamt of avenues and tall buildings and grand parks, he dreamt and lived it all. He would wake up, and intently study a dusty map of his kingdom, he would send out scouts – they hated it when he raised them in the early, cold morning hours – he would devour the history books, which he could not remember acquiring, in search, in vain, of what lay beyond the deserts, of the past before Goblin City. But the books, maps and scouts all sung to him, in a chorus of worship, admiration and persuasion, that he was their Goblin King. He was King for so long that he could not remember what was there before it all began.

And tonight this gnaw of serenity would eat at him while the rhythm of an unwritten song continues softly upon his thigh. He will slowly bring it to an end, exhale this stale, fragrant air, exchange a final look with the silent moon, and turn away and retire in his castle in the city beyond the Labyrinth, deep Underground, somewhere, nowhere.


	10. Question

AN: Thank you for the reviews! This one is...again, a reworked part of a now-abandoned Labyrinth story. Shorts are easier to write. This one - not so short, and perhaps lacks a point.

Disclaimer: Disclaimed.

* * *

**Question**

* * *

Do you love her?

She asked this in the shadows of the evening, faintly spreading over the exterior side of the windows; they sat in a corner of a sparsely populated restaurant. Ate, drank, talked and talked. And then she asked this, something which had been on her mind all of the long and tiring day, something which had been nudged to the surface by the sunset and wine.

They had walked the streets of London all over – from the majestic St Paul's just near London Bridge, along the river, popping into the Tate Modern, continuing past the Eye (not worth it, Jeremy said, the queue is too long and the sight is underwhelming) and weaving through the book market, where Sarah had paused to look at fantasy, such a brief pause.

Onwards, passing the tourists and locals outside the little restaurants (chains, Jeremy clarified). They stopped at the theatres – he showed her the upcoming schedule, hovering his finger over _Linda Williams_ – the leading actress here, and in this one, that one too… And as he scanned the lists for her glorious name, Sarah could not see his name among the titles.

Over to Westminster, and what a view from the bridge! They strolled through St James's Park only stopping every now and then for Sarah to click away at the swans with her camera, to reach Buckingham Palace (a necessary detour – you haven't been to London before). For Sarah the park was much more interesting than this building, so long and straight, orderly, nothing close to crooked spires of her imagination (you should go to France, look at the gothic cathedrals, he suggested).

Across the park they strolled, towards Trafalgar Square. Surrounded by the galleries, advertisements and swarms of tourists, she found herself at what seemed to be the centre of the world. Sarah watched the black lions flanking the column on four sides, ridden with fearless multinational children of various ages, their parents shouting warnings and holding their arms outstretched, prepared. She glanced at Jeremy and quickly clambered up to sit on a relatively unpopular lion, becoming Susan, Queen of Narnia. But after Jeremy had taken a picture, she slowly slithered off the animal's back, mindful of the children, aware of nothing to hold onto. Carefully, Sarah turned to stand on the ledge by the lion's iron belly and looked down. The ground did not seem to be so distant. She was about to jump when his voice stopped her,

"It's higher than you think."

She sat on the narrow edge and he lifted her down, though unsteady on his feet. He put his hands into his pockets,

"Linda just called."

"What did she say?"

"She asked if you were here. She said she found the dates of your trip in her diary. She was very sorry to miss you."

"Miss me?" asked Sarah, "Where is she? Can I call her back?"

"She was busy," he said tightly, "She'll call this evening. She was very apologetic towards you."

"And you? Is she coming back?"

"I don't know."

In silence, they walked over to the annoying buzz of Leicester Square. Her feet throbbed in treacherous shoes. Little by little daylight dwindled until the streetlights had come to life, illuminating the lilac sky in localised orange halos.

"Don't you sometimes wish that you were anywhere but here," he asked Sarah. Late, Soho, Sushi. He had been to Japan and missed it very much. But that wasn't exactly what he meant. He had some difficulty in expressing himself, "When on stage, I can almost pretend to be someone else, but the show is over before it even starts."

She understood, she too had pretended, she had been pirates, princesses, witches, knights, she had sculpted lands in the clouds, painted in rainbows. She had once been away somewhere, but it was a dangerous illusion which she fought, escaped, relinquished.

"Sometimes," she said, "I still find myself on the verge of wishing for something."

And?

She didn't elaborate.

He didn't laugh.

They ate.

It was almost then that he could feel another presence in his skin – for the shadows grew and Sarah looked at him over the wine glasses, as though she could decipher his otherness. Or perhaps she thought of her mother's phone call. It was then that she asked, quite earnestly. Do you love her? He did not answer, he pretended to not have anticipated her words.

Well do you?

Half a bottle of wine, gone. They are not used to drinking in the US. Wasn't she only nineteen? When he met Linda she was twenty two, in a long skirt and an Egyptian wig. She would laugh when he got his lines wrong. Then she married, moved away, but never quite left him. And he thought that she was his life. Only a few years ago was he plunged into a cruel sense of doubt, becoming aware of an intangible secret life, where there was no Linda, no London, only a safe and peaceful existence. His friends said it was a mid-life crisis, plain and simple. But where had those blasted goblins come from?

Sarah dropped her fork. Wasn't there something, someone in those shadows? A spark of gold reflecting the flickering candles? Were they not pulling at his hair, his collar, with little twisted fingers? And did he not, for a splinter of time, seem otherworldly to her?

She had asked too much and seen too much.

"We should go home," he said, when all quietened down, "You've had too much to drink."

Her cheeks were aflame with embarrassment and indignation, she crossed her arms and glared at Jeremy. He left a cheque with the bill, picked her up by the elbow and led her out into the street. Was there someone following? The sound of feet, boots, hooves and paws echoed their footsteps on the wet pavement. She could feel, if not quite see, the stares of glowing little eyes. All through the journey home in a black cab she sensed that they were not alone, and that Jeremy had taken on the guise of someone else. Unable to look at him for the awkwardness which clamped down on her tongue and bound her arms she watched the streets and buildings race by her. He sat opposite her with his back to the driver, watching her in silence. He could not answer her question.


	11. Discussion

_A/N: Perhaps that nightcap was too generous, eh, Jeremy?_

* * *

**Discussion**

* * *

I expected you to show up, said his reflection through thin sneering lips. So, what do you think?

I do know you, he thought, I have seen you before.

Not about _me._ About the Labyrinth. Isn't this where you wanted to be?

Where am I? he wondered, It is somewhere very familiar.

In the mirror, behind that mocking reflection that was definitely _not him_, walls bent this way and that, geometric paths to nowhere, tricks and detours. They moved, too, exits became entrances, dead ends led to the way forward. Somewhere beyond the Labyrinth was the castle.

D'you like it? Asked the reflection again, You built it all, stone by stone.

And he wondered, tried to remember if he had seen it or dreamt it or read it by torchlight. He reached for his hair. The reflection did the same, shadowing each and every move to an impossible precision.

What are you trying to prove to yourself, it taunted, that you are hallucinating? That I am a figment of your imagination?

And he could not shout, for the girl slept in the room next door; he could not step away, for he was too drawn to that castle, to those paths.

You have seen it before, growled _not his_ image, this time leaning forward, almost through the mirror's surface, you have been here before. You have always been here. I have always been here.

And the labyrinth, Jeremy noted, all the while that strange reflection spoke nonsense, the labyrinth continued moving, but it had turned away from that fantastical castle and instead raced, most determinedly, towards _him_.

Surely it will break the mirror, was all he had managed to think.


	12. Canvas

Disclaimed and all.

* * *

**Canvas**

* * *

He would be helplessly aware of how close he was to her, the distance of a breath, a hair's breadth. But their bodies would always glide past each other, frictionless.

She would laugh, or tie her shoelace, or look up to the clouds, and he would paint her smiles and hair and hands in flowing detail, over and over. A canvas of only her.

It was usually in the early morning, not long before sunrise, that she would overflow this specific (if large) space, and pour into every neutron in his throbbing brain, before his eyes, within his arms.

In the evenings, when the sky would dull to a dirty coral, he would similarly feel an uncontrollable thirst for her, originating from _not here_. It choked him.

He could almost feel her, although she was never really quite _there_.

And she – sometimes she would look at him as though seeing another, sometimes she would look away.

I heard or seen something like that once, he mused one such unbearable evening, that there was a King of sorts, who was in love with the girl...


	13. Wine

Disclaimed.

* * *

**Wine**

* * *

They had shared much too much wine that night.

The two of them, a pair of empty red-stained glasses. They had moved onto the carpet too. And slowly she leaned into him, as imperceptible as seasons change from day to day, and yet so unmistakable.

Through the drunken mists veiling his eyes, ears and mouth, he saw beyond the everyday horizons, into a Kingdom ordinarily _not his_, with a sober clarity. And he saw her, _not her_, another, so similar, a King and a girl, from a story, from a memory.

She slept beside him that night, she, tinged with the pigments of the wine, she, who had said all sorts of things, not knowing what will be said in the morning. He feared it, the end of dreams, the unbearable brightness. What will she say? What should he say in turn?

He stumbled in his broken sleep between the twisting walls he thought he knew, but all the while they were turning him astray, away from something he was looking for.


	14. Monotony

Here we go again.

* * *

**Monotony**

* * *

It was another one of those days.

The newer goblins were absolutely terrified - they had never seen their king act in such a way - and they ran about around the castle, up and down the stairs, periodically yelping, or hitting themselves on the head (a goblin custom to express alarm, and, some say, a biological instinct awakened in times of fear).

The older goblins went about their business, trying to avoid getting in the way of mayhem. They knew all too well that the king had these little...'moods' of his on a regular basis.

Firstly, the king was not asleep in the morning, and so did not need to be woken. He was fully dressed, and stomped about the bedroom to and fro. Secondly, the king had not come to breakfast. Thirdly, he did not order them to polish his boots. He did not, in fact, go through any of his kingly duties, and this upset the new goblins very much. He did not even shout at them. They felt abandoned.

The older goblins knew that the king had spent the night in the library, and that were they to go up to the tower and peer through the doors, they would see books, papers, maps, in great disarray, on the floor and chairs, anywhere, but the shelves. They also knew that come tomorrow, at least two representatives of goblinhood were going to be severely punished for the disorganisation of the library, as well as for getting candle wax on the pages, for which none other than the king was responsible. Fairness-shmareness, the king's memory miraculously omitted days like these.

Presently, the king was in his office. He admitted no visitors. Rumours spread that he had not shaved, or eaten anything, the details varied. While the young goblins, those who had been bold enough to eavesdrop, and now lay shaking and cowering at the foot of the great door, jumped at the sounds of breaking glass, the older goblins, who quite openly attempted to listen in for the chance to hear something interesting, merely shook their heads: they would be the ones made to sweep up the mess and their little feet would surely be cut.

Jareth was alone, barricaded away from all other beings. He was using this me-time productively, leaning back on the heavy chair, balancing on its two rear wooden legs, creating crystal after crystal with his left hand, and hurling them at the door, one after another, with his right.  
"Sure, I'll do it," he muttered, "Sure, I'll stay here, be a king, of the what you say? Goblins. Goblins, doesn't sound so great. King though. Forever you say? Sure, I'll do it; it's not that long, is it?"  
And another crystal sphere shattered spectacularly on the wood of the door.  
"Endless magic, great, endless power and awe-inspiring splendour, great, neat wardrobe, wonderful, wonderful, a castle to boot, the castle beyond the labyrinth, great, whoopee, dream come frigging true..."  
He swung back on the chair, rather precariously.  
"_She_ got out though, didn't she? Got in, got out, thirteen hours, give or take, and bam."  
He launched another crystal at his target.  
"Got the baby too. Bonus."  
The pile of glass shards at the bottom of the door sparkled.  
"Made it look so easy too," he grimaced, "Tra la la, you have no power over me. Piece of frigging cake."

He fell silent for a moment, inspected a newly-formed crystal that had come into being from somebody's dreams, rolled it around on the palm of his hand, and its dreams rolled with it, round and round, along the great walls of the Labyrinth, turning this way and that...

He sighed, and glared at the pile of papers he had taken from the library, those which seemed promising, but which, upon closer inspection, gave no answers, only nonsensical words and meaningless pictures, swept them onto the floor, rolled the crystal onto the floor.

Tomorrow he will forget, or pretend to forget, for he can no longer tell the difference. He will receive his appointments, and deal with his paperwork, and his goblins will, with some prodding, get the castle into order. And he will go on, as he had done, carry on and on, and on, across the universe.


	15. Rain

Vaguely Fleetwood Mac inspired, again.

* * *

**Rain**

* * *

On rainy evenings she often appears distant.  
It's the weather, she says, excuses herself.  
Sometimes she opens the windows to let the thunder roll over her skin.  
Upon the wings of a storm, she glides far away, into a memory.  
She starts to make a wish, quietly, pauses, stops.  
In moments like this he thinks he can hear her voice.


	16. Between

Living between the stars has its drawbacks. Disclaimé.

* * *

**Between**

* * *

Where am I? She asks, weightless and giddy.

It is neither light nor dark, the air is thin but pleasantly warm.

She can sense a movement in the corner of her eye, just outside her vision, just out of her grasp.

He says nothing, circling around her, and still she cannot see him.

Where are you? She wonders if he will reply.

You are between the stars, he says finally, and his words sound so far away, although she knows he is right here, with her, almost _in_ her, occupying the same atoms, spinning in the same electrons.

Stop moving! She shouts, she tries to catch him, but he slips through her fingers.

I am here, he says, and she looks around wildly, but he remains elusive. She is angry. She wants to see his face. She says, Let me look at you.

You are the one who is spinning, he responds, so distantly, sadly.

She clenches her hands into fists, it isn't right, it isn't fair!

I am here, he says again, softly this time, she can barely hear him.

Is this how it is to be? She sighs, resigned and disappointed.

He glides past her, and not a hair moves on her arm. He says, Fairness is relative.

I want... she begins, and her hands clasp each other tightly, I want to touch you...

This is how it is to be.

She feels herself sinking, this weight in her stomach pulling her down, down through the open window, down to her room where she had been sleeping, down she floats, gently, slowly.

He is silent, but still with her, accompanying her on this descent to sleep.

The next time, she asks, as dreams settle on her eyelashes, will it be the same next time?

He longs to stroke her hair, all spread over the pillow.

But she now sleeps, and he fades away from her, into the Underground.

Sarah, he sighs, every time, it is always the same...


	17. Glitter

A nod to _See Emily Play_, and not to Gary.

* * *

**Glitter**

* * *

Jeremy tries, misunderstands. This time he's taken to disco balls. Why in the world? But he spins them and they refract glints of light in all sorts of patterns all around the walls. He finds it comforting.

Linda would have hated it.

In the light he sees music. Inspired, he reaches for his moleskine and a cruddy old biro, anxiously turns to a fresh page, ready to jot down the beginnings of a musical, his very own musical, perhaps, or at least an interjection for that period piece he'd been commissioned to do, but before the pen starts writing the music is gone, just like that, where did it go? Why wouldn't it stay?

He sighs and puts the notebook down down down, and falls down down down, to the place where he can hear his runaway melody but never quite catch up with it.

Again, he spins the disco ball.


	18. Dress

_All references / characters / pretence of ownership disclaimed. But what a song - straight out of the Bowie's mouth, so to speak. That song being _Let Me Sleep Beside You.

* * *

**Dress**

* * *

They had drunk the oldest wine under the velvet sky.

Delirious, Sarah rummaged through her mother's closet, picking through patterned scarves and dresses heavy with perfume. She let her mother's jewellery run like sand through her fingers.

At first he only observed her from the armchair, but now stood behind her, watching her become Linda in the mirror. He pressed down upon her shoulders, ran his fingers up up up her neck and into her hair, swept it all up in a storm.

'I will give you dreams,' he said, so quietly, as his words settled in her ears and upon her jaw.

She could almost lean into him, almost return his touch, but held her gaze steady and challenged his reflection in the mirror of Linda's dresser. Her brows never flinched. Perhaps she could afford a hint of a smile.

And then he, amused, lowered his face to her temple.

'In this game the winner never wins,' he whispered.

.

Let your hair hang down

Wear the dress your mother wore

Let me sleep beside you


	19. Return

_Inspired by _I've Been Waiting For You_, by Neil Young (and later Bowie), and not by Abba._

* * *

**Return**

* * *

She could not help returning, or at least dawdling at the threshold, from time to time.

There, she could see her breath form into little crystals each time she exhaled from her tired lungs, and they would fall into her hands like little diamonds.

She could walk and walk, traverse it over and over, but never take quite the same path.

And everyone there was a friend, or at least, they knew her, knew of her. Not that she knew them all, but they were never strangers.

It was inevitable that she could never stay, not even when he asked her to - and he wanted her to - so badly.

She had to go.

She would return.

And he wondered, as he watched the last of her shadow disappear into the away, why it was that she kept coming and going and why it was that he was still there.

.

I've been waiting for you

And you've been coming to me

For such a long time now


	20. Fine

Everything's just hunky dory. And disclaimed.

* * *

**Fine**

* * *

'Well,' Sarah hesitated at the telephone, 'Just fine, mom. Jeremy and I have been getting along just fine.'

'Just fine?' he asked as she finally let the receiver rest on the hook.

'Just fine,' she said, and pulled him towards her.


	21. Never

_What in the world is going on here? A lot of nonsense, that's for sure. I suppose it's an example of that 'between the stars' malarkey these guys have going on._

* * *

**Never**

* * *

The sunlight made him jump. His eyes flew open and he propped himself up in bed, ran his fingers through his hair and along his face. It all felt normal. He watched his breath steadily fill his lungs and belly, slowly exhaled: this feeling was not alien to him, he was his own.

And just then the blankets stirred beside him, and Jeremy turned to her. Not quite awake, he expected to see Linda, just as always, reached out just as she, asleep, tilted her proud head toward him, and then all at once he jerked back, clamped his hands against his mouth.

It was not Linda at all.

'What have I done?' he whispered, afraid, cold beads of sweat collecting on his face and back.

He untangled himself from the blankets, backed away from the bed. His hand reached for the bathroom door, and he staggered onto the cold tiles, ran the tap, and could hardly dare to raise his eyes to the mirror.

'Why aren't you there?' he demanded. He knew that he had lost his mind, that he wanted to see that strange man, wanted him to assume responsibility and to sneer in contempt at Jeremy's little situation. Instead, his reflection paled and trembled.

He splashed water on his face. It didn't help. He swore.

How old was she again? About as old as his own son. How could he do that to her? And Linda! How could he do that to Linda?

'What have I done?' his voice cracked.

He sank to the floor, clutched at his hair and buried his face in his arms.

He had not been himself for some time, but he had never felt so dazed as he had in these past few days.

Through the half-closed door he watched her stretch and sit up. She looked for him. He felt ashamed.

And yet, Jeremy was disgusted to learn, somehow, it did seem to make a perverse sort of sense.

Sarah pulled him up to his feet, and he knew she knew.

'I suppose you're wondering what that was all about,' she said trivially. His hands were still shaking. She poured him a glass of water.

Sarah glanced at the mirror over his shoulder.

'You're looking for him, aren't you?' she asked softly, 'But he's been right here all this time.'

In her arms he shuddered, suddenly weak,

'Have I been telling you about dreams and stars? About forever?'

'Never forever,' she said, her face clear and collected, 'For you have...'

Jeremy froze.

'...no power...'

And he could do nothing, nothing at all, as she whispered into his ear.


	22. Labyrinth

_Is this perhaps a hint at a synthesis? Nod to _What in the World _from_ Low.

* * *

**Labyrinth**

* * *

She's just a little girl with green eyes, but he's a little bit afraid of her.

Sarah wants to believe that he is who she thinks he is. She says 'Jeremy', but she really means someone else. She wants him to believe it too, and she thinks that he does.

And Jeremy, poor Jeremy, who took to Linda's Sarah just like that, feels like he is both himself and someone else. How can that be? He reads some books while Sarah visits the British Museum. The books make him wonder if people can live in two places at the same time. What would that other place be? And even if he is somehow fragmented, in madness or in being, how is it that his girlfriend's nineteen year old daughter knows about it?

But when he remembers Linda in the mornings and in the nights, he thinks, now that Sarah is here, perhaps it was not Linda he was looking for, perhaps Linda only approximated his desire, perhaps she only resembled his salvation. With every such thought Jeremy's guilt and shame float further away to another side. He justifies his actions. He does not attempt to stop Sarah when she returns.

Linda could have never saved him. She never understood him. But Sarah understands.

Sarah says, that is the way it must be done.

He wonders why his words feel like they are another's, and why her words sound familiar, as though he is inhaling and exhaling little pieces of a story out of sequence. He wonders why none of this surprises his little lover. And then one night they share a cigarette and she tells him about the Labyrinth.


	23. Jareth

A rough sketch of an answer. Sort of.

* * *

**Jareth**

* * *

Today, though it could have been any day at all, he had tried yet again to find where the Goblin Kingdom began and when it would end. As usual he found nothing. Exhausted, he stumbled into his armchair and closed his eyes.

Everything he had consulted only ever created more lies, which slithered around his wrists and ankles, binding him to his throne in this grey castle.

Instead of dreaming, he saw _not him_ in one of those apartments in the Above, and next to _not him_ was _her_.

Well, he thought, somebody up there likes me.

The vision of her face appeared to offer him an answer.

She tells him a tale which he had written, and in reading it they write it over and over.

Why had he been on her mind so long, and why had he been away so long, and who was he anyway?

Yes, he was this Jareth, and there was Sarah, and she had made him into this strange object of desire within her Labyrinth.

No, she says, places her hands on the wrinkles around his eyes, no.

Don't you see, she strokes his face, I found you there.

You hadn't left it for a long time, she says.


	24. Dusk

_A/N: Thank you to those who are interested in these strange fictional explorations of mine. As you can tell, I'm not sure what the answers are, or what is going to happen, or whether this Sarah/Jeremy|Jareth 'rapport' makes any sense, but that is sort of why I have to write this, to try to work through it, or at least to develop possibilities. And then I hope I will be able to sleep at night :) But enough from me! (Everything is disclaimed). _

* * *

**Dusk**

* * *

Surrounded by the dusk they sat on the bench outside, their features slowly becoming desaturated and formless with the fading light. She could no longer see the details of his face. The vague clumps ahead may have been goblins or shrubs. They sat so close that they were touching. He now seemed indeterminate to her, his profile disintegrating into the dark as she watched.

"You have lost a part of yourself," she said slowly but without much concern, "Why don't you leave that place?"  
To tell her the truth, he was not sure what his self really was, or which part had been lost.  
"Where would I go?"

When he spoke, his words seemed to possess multiple pitches just before they were absorbed by the night. He spoke as a disjointed whole. Sarah considered the complexity of his character. She had been so convinced that the Goblin King was an aspect of Jeremy deep underground, but became aware of the possibility that Jeremy was a reflection of the King, and she did not know which sat beside her.

The leather jacket creaked. He hunched and placed his elbows on his knees. He knew the answer - that wherever he happened to be, he would always, always look for her. That brought him to another question.

"Why have I wanted you?"

He was unable to see her and could only imagine where her hair lay on her back, or where her legs stretched out in front of her. The shadows quietly merged into each other. Sarah may not have been there at all, or that's what he could have thought if it weren't for the pressure of her thigh against his.

As she did not reply he let his hand trace an outline of her jaw, her cheek, her brow, to gather her up from the night. Despite her efforts to find him, to bring him back, neither of them knew where he was or where he was supposed to be. She took his hand.

.

Sarah reclined on the wide bed wearing her mother's black kimono, its heavy silk oddly folded over her body, perfume lingering deep in its folds. It was late morning. She watched him shower through layers of steam and opaque glass. He was unknown and indefinite still.


	25. Worm

_A/N: All is disclaimed. Jeremy has therapy. Well, he would, wouldn't he?_

* * *

**Worm**

* * *

For several minutes now Jeremy had been standing by a door beside which a tablet modestly declared the name and qualification of his long-standing analyst. He had missed his sessions in the two weeks that Sarah had been here. In fact he deliberately avoided this door since Linda left.  
He would have continued to loiter if the door hadn't opened.

"What are you waiting out here for? Come inside and have a nice cup of tea."  
Jareth sighed, but bent down to the Worm's eye level to be polite.  
"Tea?" he asked.

"You missed your sessions," said Dr de Vere as he took Jeremy's coat, "Was something the matter?"  
They walked through to the room with heavy curtains, and Jeremy sat down on the couch, looked at his hands,  
"You could say that."

Inside the Worm's house, Jareth felt rather comfortable. He hadn't been there for quite some time.  
"What has been on your mind?" the Worm asked while setting the table for tea, "You ought to take better care of yourself."  
Jareth laughed.  
"You remember the story I told you about? There is a Goblin King who can hardly sleep, who sees another existence, which is both distant and close to him. It is within him and outside of him."

Dr de Vere adjusted his glasses and unscrewed the lid of his fountain pen.  
"Please, make yourself comfortable," he suggested and leaned further back into his leather chair.  
Jeremy positioned himself on the couch - the first few minutes were always so stupid, stupid.  
"Linda had left again," he began hesitantly, flexing his long fingers, "Her daughter was supposed to visit us during her vacation. Linda never said- she'd left and Sarah arrived. She's staying. She unnerves me."  
His account was cautious and disconnected.

"Now that I've seen her," Jareth told the Worm, "She has brought strange memories to me." They could be dreams.  
"I see," the Worm said, and lifted his cup to his lips, "Have some cake. Fresh from the oven."  
He remained quiet as the King hinted at Sarah and at her uncanny resemblance to her mother; and of his own resemblance to this unemployed English actor.  
Most days, Jareth would not have much opportunity to talk. In the castle the goblins made less appealing conversation partners than the walls. At least the walls returned to him traces of his own voice.

He cannot stop speaking.

The nib of the pen scratches the paper.

"There are things I remember or things I dream, I told you before," he attempts to explain, "I am in a forest. I am in a throne room. I am flying, or maybe falling. But she is there, her face is right there before me. I am a whisper in the wind."  
How long had she been there, asks the Worm, consulting his previous notes.  
He does not know. He voices the idea that he had been entertaining, that Linda was only a copy. Only - he thinks - Linda trusted him as he promised her such gifts - only a copy.  
Dr Worm nods along.  
He wants to talk about his childhood - isn't that what he was supposed to do anyway? - but the tea makes his eyes heavy. He is exhausted.  
Go on, says Dr Worm.  
He sinks further into the couch, floats away from the worlds and descends into a warm darkness.  
He begins.


	26. Guilt

**Guilt**

Sarah was going home in three days.

Linda rang. I have to see Sarah before she leaves, she said, a tense voice from an unknown place.

Jeremy looked in the mirror and was no longer sure of who he saw there.

That took them to the end of the day.

In the evening Sarah's eyes were almost vacant, filled with lilac sky, and in her heart she sensed a cold unpleasant weight. She did not know what she was going to do. She turned to him, as though he would know.

He smiled at her.

Love has made you

Dreamless

But all I have to give

Is guilt for dreaming

(paraphrased)


	27. Kingdom

Jareth is stubborn...

* * *

**Kingdom**

* * *

The cold spread through his body and into his hair. He sat upon a stair that lead to some place in the southern part of the castle, and gradually became part of the stone. He had been sitting there for a long time.

His lands roll out beneath the towers, full of walls and turnings and illusions. But beyond them, in every direction, lies an emptiness which he cannot cross.

Far away, Sarah's voice said, 'Why don't you leave that place?'

The temptation is almost unbearable because he can quite easily picture himself, free, writing music and making love. He can see them both in a life that is not his own; it is a life that he had given up long ago.

"My will is as strong, and my kingdom as great," he told the stones around him. Above, another echoed his words. And Sarah looked him in the eye, only sighed, just a little.


	28. Queen

...As is Sarah.

* * *

**Queen**

* * *

She saw the Goblin King in the damp shadows on the pavement. She heard him in the wind and felt him upon her skin. And she sensed him in her mother's lover, her lover, in little glimpses.

But for something more substantial she would have to find him in the Labyrinth, which he would never leave.

He was so stubborn, Sarah thought.

She dreamt of his castle and learned that a throne had been reserved for her. When she comes, said the goblins, when the words are right.  
'Are the words right, Sarah?' he asked her, but she said nothing. Her throne was old: spiders had spun their webs all over it and moss grew on its base and the rot had set in.

'My will as strong and my kingdom as great,' she whispered under her breath, in her sleep, into his arm. He stroked her hair.


	29. Forget

_A/N: This is nearing an end! Just one more chapter, and then this nonsense shall be over. Lyrics from Jeff Buckley's aptly named _Forget Her_._

* * *

**Forget**

* * *

They watched the clock, for Linda would arrive on the hour. Jeremy fidgeted, drummed his fingers on the kitchen table. Sarah held an empty cup still in her hands.

He glanced at Sarah and wondered how he would be able to leave her.

There were only minutes left now.

She put the cup down.

'Look,' she said, as though she sensed his questions, 'The Goblin King gave the girl certain powers.'

He shrank away because he suddenly knew what she would say next.

'You could forget me,' she suggested, 'Forget all about the girl, and the King and the Labyrinth.'

He looked to his hands, which trembled, and thought of their liaisons, of the strange man in the mirror who knew him, thought of Linda and of Mondays, and of the little boy lost in a forest long long ago.

'Look, Jeremy,' Sarah coaxed, 'I'm offering you your dreams.'

Any minute, Linda would come back, and wouldn't it be nice to pretend to forget?

'I'd remember nothing?' he asked her, and considered that perhaps he'd be happier that way, 'I'd be the same old Jeremy?'

'The same old Jeremy,' she repeated gently, urging him to decide.

But he had to know, before he resigned himself completely to Jeremy Jones, what would happen to them, the King and the girl and the Labyrinth? Would he ever see her again?

'Hush,' she soothed, and kissed his temple.

.

I feel so still as I try to find the will to forget her, somehow.  
Oh I think I've forgotten her now.


	30. Endless

That's it!

* * *

**Endless**

* * *

Jeremy does not remember feeling so content. He and Linda see Sarah off at the airport. Linda says she will stay. Everything that had been done is now forgotten.

Anything that Linda suspected is forgotten too.

Jareth remains in the Labyrinth, and waits.

Sarah will continue, in countless lives, just as the Goblin King continues, and sometimes they meet, and sometimes not.

Over and over.

Forever.


End file.
